New Wilderness, Meet the Old Wilderness; Part 2

Part 1 (LINK)

July Fourth weekend, it’s Anchorage’s favorite weekend to load up all their toys into a vehicle coupled to a trailer, neither of which may pass a basic mechanical inspection, and hard-charge it down the Seward Highway, making 8-car passes on inside corners, until eventually, someone blows it and shuts down traffic.

Don't break your bike, and don't break your riding buddies!

Is it any wonder why I always hope for rain or an excuse to stay in town this weekend?

Solitude is a hard-to-come-by commodity anywhere on the Peninsula this weekend, but that’s not always the point.

My wishes for rain or clouds denied: brilliant blue skies dominate, and I can’t resist either, so I take off on the Lost Lake Loop.

Damnit. Why can't it rain (kidding).

 

It is assured, the name-sake trail in this 34-mile ride will be an absolute zoo.

As I climb from Seward, a hiker tells me: “We need to limit the number of bikers on this trail.”

“I could say the same thing about hikers,” registers in my mind, but oxygen debt and a limited ability to maintain the moral high-ground inhibits a response…mostly oxygen debt though.

I wonder why it is that she tells ME this, I’m slowly climbing by.

I can’t help but empathize with her a bit though.

I’m legitimately nervous that I will get nailed by a descending rider on some rent-wreck junker of a bike

 

(Edit: this almost happens a few weeks later when a rider comes careening down the canyon section just below tree line on a mid-90s vintage hardtail replete with rim brakes and an 80mm elastomer fork. Unable to stop before hitting me, I duck into the adjacent hillside, and the rider ended performing a complete cartwheel off the cliff side. He was lucky the vegetation that arrested his fall didn’t impale or twist him up too bad. No helmet on the joker either).

I feel like I’m making more noise than some of the descending riders, and that whole “uphill has right of way” rule seems lost in the blooming cow parsnip.

The funny thing is, I’m more nervous on this climb than I was an hour or two ago when I started to head down the mossy section of the Iditarod Trail that leads from the Seward Highway in Divide to Bear Lake.

 

I passed a surprisingly large group of hikers very near the start of the section – surprising because I hardly ever see people on this trail – and they warn: “There’s bears at the lake!”

I ask “what lake?”

I get confused stares in response.

This is really helpful, as there aren’t many lakes in this segment of trail, nor bears for that matter: I mean, there is Troop Lake about a mile or so in – which is presumably where these people are headed, but I will skirt; and there is of course, the very “beary” Bear Lake, 7 miles down the trail in Seward, where I’m headed; and then there are maybe 3-4 other bodies of water I’d probably describe as ponds between these two bodies of liquid, but maybe they’re lakes with bears too?

The thing is, I sometimes joke, this section of trail was actually cut by the Feds for the bears. As noted, I almost never see people on it. Fat and plump blueberries grow abundantly here, and blue/purble bear scat litters the trail from mid-July through August. Closer to Seward, Bear Lake, which I don’t think got its name because of its oblique shape, is the end run for thousands of returning Bear Creek salmon with nowhere to go and nothing to do but die and present their protein-rich bodies to those who might wish to feast upon them.

Bear Lake salmon.

 

All the while, the dense, old-growth forest makes this a lovely corridor to pass between Resurrection Bay and the Snow River drainage, if you’re into hanging out in deep, dark, quiet forests – kinda like bears are into.

So yes, this is really helpful beta: there could be some bears, by the lake.

I’ve been thinking lately, we actually need a sign at the narrow isthmus between mainland AK and the Kenai Peninsula that says: “Caution: Bears ahead at lake.”

What? It wouldn’t be wrong.

Neither were the hikers though.

What lake?!

 

Guess what I find at Bear Lake? Yup. Momma and her 3 millennial cubs out for a stroll.

These cubs are all just about as big as momma, and after the instant fear has washed away, I think, in retrospect, those cubs need to move out already.

Maybe they’re still perfecting their artisanal fish carcass sculpting?

It could have been a bad situation though. The section of trail along the steep east shore of Bear Lake is tough: technical, lots of blind corners, dark, and ledgy.

I even had the thought, moments before I interrupted this bear family’s outing: “What if I dropped into one of these blind descents, or came around one of these ledgy corners, and came face to face with a browny?”

If I had any time to react at all, my only exit option would be to leap away from the steep hillside into the thickets of devils club and alder below, hoping the bear deferred to better judgment and didn’t follow suit.

I’m lucky I spot them down one of the few stretches of trail with a good sight line, maybe 50 feet. Even still, mom huffs, and she hesitates before turning tail. The three cubs struggle to turn around on the narrow trail to flee, clumsily bumping into eachother.

Had it been a closer encounter, they might have realized they had good odds for a beat down.

Admittedly, I was shocked.

Smiles on the Iditarod trail.

 

I’m used to seeing a lot of bear sign on this trail, especially later in the summer when the blueberries are ripe and the shores of Bear Lake wreak with the stench of rotten salmon.

The blueberries were still white though, and the fish had yet to make a strong showing at the lake, or, at least start dying by the hundreds.

More, it was 1 in the afternoon on a bright sunny day.

Not really when I expect to find a family of bears out and about.

If you slit a tubeless tire and happen to have a tire boot, don't waste your time with the sticky adhesive, it won't work with all the sealant in the tire...I got a lot of practice this summer.

 

I guess that’s just it though: In the new wilderness, and the old wilderness, it’s never clear what the dangers will be, it’s just how different the dangers actually are in each, even if the two can exist in the exact same place.

New Wilderness, Meet the Old Wilderness; Part 1

The Old Wilderness: It’s remote, abandoned, desolate, cold, lonely, and ruthless.

The New Wilderness: Can’t find a parking space at the trailhead; can’t get good 4G/LTE coverage to Twittergram or Tinder; don’t make eye contact with all the others; just stepped in dog poo in my brand new hiking sneakers; screw this, I’m calling the chopper.
If these two wildernesses were overlayed on a map, surprisingly, we’d see they often sit atop each other.
When I moved up here, friends and family from Outside were convinced I’d end up dead from cold, starvation, getting lost, and consumed by some beast – possibly all of these things happening simultaneously in one calamitous demise.
That’s because I was obviously off recreating in the Old Wilderness – in their minds.
The New Wilderness is no less ruthless though.
On any given weekend, in the “near-country” of Southcentral Alaska, you can find yourself locked in the jaws of either of these wildernesses…it’s just hard to say whether those jaw will resemble that of a 15lbs Schnauzer or a 1,500 lbs grizzly…that’s kind of (emphasis on: kind of) been my summer in a nutshell.

One weekend back in late-May, I go out on a solo 45 mile out-and-back on Russian Lakes Trail, determined to crack my previous best time for this ride as conditions are optimal. With 14 miles to go, feeling good, and on track to bust the old time down a peg, an errant stick shoves the rear derailleur into my wheel and it’s ripped off my bike so violently it leaves a chunk of bolt sheared off in the frame and flings another chunk of the former gear-shifting assembly deep into the high grass where I can’t even find it. 

Think I'm missing a piece...or two.

Without locomotion, I neutralize my gears and clip the kinked chain down to size to single-speed for a mile or two before it eventually over-tensions and the chain explodes. I proceed to jog the remaining mileage out, coasting what little terrain I can, and power-hiking the rest. My carbon fiber-soled cycling make this way more enjoyable than it sounds.
I’m reminded along the way: this is why I start these longer rides earlier in the day. I’m, also reminded: this is why, as much as I dislike running, I run every week, and make those runs hard – by a cyclist’s standards anyway.
These are the only two ways to “prep” for this situation, other than bringing a new derailleur, derailleur hanger, chain, and power drill to tap out the sheared off bolt. I guess you could also only ride a single-speed, and then you may well develop tendonitis too.
Basically, the risk of riding these longer trails all the time, is there’s always the risk that you’re going to be out for a lot longer than you plan.

Well, at least it's a nice day out...

As the end of the tunnel draws near, I begin to think: “this wasn’t so bad after all,” (endorphins talking) when I cross paths with two backpackers and the three dogs accompanying them.
One of the dogs, a sheepherding-looking thing, decides it doesn’t like me on this trail, or near its herd, or both.
This dog and I already met this morning. He/she didn’t like me then either, but stuck to aggressive barking and snapping.
This time around, the dog is still off leash, and I’m not as lucky: he/she/whocares grabs my ankle, leaving two small punctures and two small slashes.
Go figure I’d get bit by a dog today.

Back at the car. Admittedly, I've done worse to my legs with chain rings and free-wheeling pedals...but then again, my gears don't make a point of eating feces.

Again, what can you do? I have a med kit. With the dog restrained, I pull out some iodine pads and clean the bite the best I can. I’m close to the car, and in less than an hour, I will clean it further with alcohol wipes.
I pull out my phone and ask one of the backpackers to provide an ID so I can get a snap shot of it.
If the bite is infected, the doctors will have to record it as a dog bite and file a report with the authorities (a colleague went through this ordeal).
They oblige, and I can tell they are concerned. They apologize non-stop. They promise they were just about to leash the dog, its not there’s, it’s a friend's, it’s an abused rescue, the list goes on.
I love dogs, but I have every right to be irate with them: the dog already demonstrated over-the-top aggression this morning, they are nearing a very popular hiking area as they get closer to civilization, and (ME!) I’d been planning to camp this weekend, but would be hot-and-bothered about it now.
I have other things on my mind, and yelling won’t satisfy anything. It's not even in the top-10 on things on my mind right now.
The backpackers seem genuinely remorseful, that's about all I really expect. In the back of my mind is the irony that on this trail, most folks would expect to get mauled by a bear before they’d get bit by a dog.

A week later, I’m back, looking for redemption on the same ride. The weather has changed, and the blue skies and 70 degree temps have switched to gloomy gray with passing showers with highs in the upper 50s.

I stuff a rain shell into my pack, but look at arm warmers and decide I will really only need a shell if I need anything.
I head out, and though I get sprinkled on here and there over the course of the next 5 hours, it’s never enough to justify the shell. The temps though…they justify some insulation, especially in the higher elevation section of this ride. Not terribly stupid, but definitely dumb in the scheme of things.
For two hours I ride without seeing another person. The weather has clearly kept people away this week compared to last.
I’m hardly alone though.

For the last three weeks I’ve been riding in this valley, and for the last three weeks, I’ve seen virtually no signs of bear.
This week, their sign is everywhere.
I like the silence though. When I’m riding with others, sometimes I hope to see a bear. In 7 years of riding the Kenai, I’ve seen only three of the brown variety. I’ve seen a lot more of the black variety, but they are a fearful animal here, a prey species that survives by staying low or running fast.
Seven miles in, dozens of feet from the trail’s namesake river, surrounded by a dense wall of willows and spindly spruce, the vegetation explodes to my right.
A brown bear, probably confused by the combination of noises from the river and the bike, all muted and warped by the dense growth, charges first toward me, before wheeling back around.
I see only the brown flash, and know to hold my pace steady as the noise subsides.
I flip several glances over my shoulder, and am relieved the bear is not in pursuit.
“That was close,” I think, as I up my pace a titch out of nervousness.
Less than 10 minutes later the trail has entered a beautiful stretch where it winds its way through a mosaic of cottonwood stands and open meadows
I cross a bridge Adam and I once treed a chubby black bear on.
Into a field, the trail sweeps left. Two, massive, blond shoulders are just visible above the handle-bar-high grass, ambling about 30 feet ahead and closing.
“WHOA!”
It’s all I can think to say in the moment as I stand up on the pedals and squeeze hard on the brakes.
The massive head attached to the shoulders flies up from ground level, eyes wide.
We lock gazes for a fraction of a second, but the bear is already wheeling back to run.
By the time I realize how close we were, and how bad this could have gone, he – and I’m assuming “he” since there were no cubs – is already loping 50 feet away down the trail; flipping glances back.
“That. Was. Way. Too. Close.”
I’ve easily been as close, or closer, to brown bears of similar size a few times before at the fishing lodge.
You knew what the bear wanted though: spawned out salmon, or the remains of filleted carcasses it could fish out from the river bed.
“Stay outta my way and we all get along,” was the MO there.
Out here, it’s harder to guess how an encounter will go, and in the end, they’re better to avoid.
I stop, but it seems that a large fraction of the insect entourage that was accompanying my fellow trail user has decided I’m just as tasty.
I look at my bike computer’s clock, and think I should hold for 5 minutes. After hardly 2, the swarm is too intense.
I ride on, somewhat reluctantly, but am now in full-on noise-making mode.
I count to 10 in my head on the flats, 20 if I’m climbing, and belt out a loud “HeyOhh.”
I should have started doing that as soon as I set off alone. I should have started doing that as soon as I noticed how much more sign there was this week. I should have started doing that as soon as I saw the first bear.
As if to prove the point, not twenty minutes later, riding through a scenic, pastoral meadow on the Upper Lake’s south side, I see the blond rump of the third bear of the day bounding a good 50 feet or more down the trail.
This one got the advanced warning, like so many others I probably never see.
Up to today, I may have only seen three brown bears in thousands of miles of Kenai rides, but I’m not stupid, I couldn’t even begin to wager a guess at the number that have seen me.
It’s the last brown bear I’ll see today, but not the season.

Jingle Bells

I love Christmas, but I hate jingle bells.

Not the popular holiday song, but the little bells so commonly found on Alaska trails during the summer.

“Bear bells,” they are commonly called.

“Travel in Bear Country 101” tells us to make noise; lots of it.

At some point, someone realized attaching a jingle bell or two to themselves, their pet, or their bike, would accomplish this task.

Alliteration is great, so why not call them bear bells?

I don’t really care so much if someone uses a bear bell or not to be honest, so long as they’re not riding a foot off my back wheel for hours on end, then, my opinion changes.

Suffice to say, I’ve never used so-called bear bells in the backcountry, or until recently, the front country for that matter.

My disdain for them is less founded in my hate for all things jingly and merry, but because they’re ineffective at their supposed name, scaring away bears.

I spend a lot of time in the summer riding through the Kenai backcountry. Sometimes, I’m accompanied by other riders who sport these jingle bells.

When the cow parsnip and other thick vegetation lining the trails goes into photosynthetic overdrive, it can tower 6 feet above the ground and form a nearly impenetrable wall on either side of the trail corridor (and often enough right across it).

With more than 30 feet between myself and a jingly riding partner, I can’t hear their bell anymore in these conditions.

Now, I’m no good at “mathes,” but I can get by, so here’s a little algebraic fun.

If a mountain biker is traveling 7 miles per hour (an average pace), according to my advanced abilities to use Google, that means they are traveling 10.2 feet per second.

This means that, at least for my own auditory senses, I would not hear them until they were just under 3 seconds away.

Obviously, in an open, alpine meadow, or somewhere with less sound dampening, the noise of the jingle bell will carry a lot further, but then, hopefully the hiker/biker is following Bear Safety 101 Point Number 2: Stay alert, use all your senses, like, your eyes.

I will grant too, that bears have a much better auditory sense than I do so they might pick up on an approaching Christmas caroler before I would.

Another mark against the bear bell I learned of recently: bears don’t know what bells are, nor that they should be frightened by them.

I’m going to call this, “kind of true.”

I’m pretty sure that bears aren’t into music-making devices, and if they were, I’d guess them to be heavy metal rockers with a soft spot for jam bands (in keeping with their copious consumption of mushrooms and fermented meats and berries).

So, a bear isn’t really going to know what the doofy jingly, biped is, and in remote Alaska particularly, the bell might just as well be announcing “dinner!”

On the Kenai, and closer to “urban” Alaska, I’m willing to bet a lot of bears have had varying levels of encounters with humans, and if the bears frequent trails where jingle-bell-wearing users pass by regularly, they have probably established some kind of relationship between the two.

That doesn’t really do much about the limited ability of the bell to cast its sound though.

So what works?

For bikers, a good, handle bar-mounted, spring-loaded bell can give off a piercing ring, bet how easily can they be rung in key places (fast down hills, curvy sections, or areas of thick vegetation), as opposed to just constantly and dully.

Maybe one of the best bets, our own flappers.

Constant communication is a good place to start, and easily fills the void of an incessantly ringing bell.

Like the jingle bell though, a conversation may not carry over distance. For this, I recommend a baritone friend.

A loud shout as is good as any, and will inform a nearby bear that a human is coming through.

Whether that whets their appetite or not, well, that’s a different issue.